


The Pyromaniac's Neighbour

by 11dishwashers



Category: LOONA (Korea Band)
Genre: Gen, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11dishwashers/pseuds/11dishwashers
Summary: Occasionally, Sooyoung will watch the smoke rise.





	The Pyromaniac's Neighbour

From time to time, Sooyoung could've sworn in names ushered beneath all her lattice, that she saw the grey etched into the air as smoke rose up from her defacto neighbours' Beverly Hills lawn. It wasn't so wonderful a sight that the scandal thrummed her veins until her blood forced her off the drawing room couch, but still she made it a point to acknowledge it, for if no one else were to watch the orange sparks, then it became more sorrowful than the rich life jizzed itself after. She sat upon the lounge chair and flipped the vinyl for the fifth time that morning. Her aunt had insisted, while raising her into a life that was manicured by some grander admission that flocked towards pride and rejected all notions in spite of it, that surround sound systems were a way only futurites- such as herself, though she was avoiding the arrogance in saying this- had the money and sensibility to have installed. However, Sooyoung was lazy and quite romantic about ugly things that were ditched on purpose, such as the grooves in her discs and old mirrors that had more than an Ouija board's chance at being haunted and twee pop that god himself had requested standby upon. In any case, she had flipped the disc and sat and listened as the ugly music spoiled her plants once more. The morning was so crisp that outside, the gardeners were slacking off if only to fit the entire holiday-esque aesthetic some more. How considerate of them, she thought as she raked a finger from her scalp all the way down to her freshly chorded hair, perhaps a raise in salary had been overdue since the previous one, which again her aunt had great influence upon, in that it hadn't occurred nor existed. But there was smoke, again in a straight column up above the white painted wickets where the roses grew to contaminate, the blood reds flapping about, languid in a mildest, churning breeze. It was a sight to be deemed deplorable in any brackets and any polls and any slum. She once again found herself caught up with this generosity extended to her, that the mansion had been a lonely affair; detached on both sides, as the estate agent draws, room for thick, permed hedges to expand between them, even should they be enacted as though their leaves were sponge and the lawn was always musty with rain. 

Once again, it begged the question if her neighbour- one or more, it was a tough cypher to expose in its true form- was a pyromaniac. 

When the smoke began to lick in through the open window, she huffed up a storm and even coughed some, and wondered if this was what it meant to smoke out in the daylight, and then left her record player to spin as she retired to a bedroom that was somewhere so distant, the technological humming had not yet paved its way up the staircase. Her days were slothful in that way where all things about her life were either softened or lapsed with sugar free sweetener. Appropriately so, she twiddled about with her dead brother's acoustic guitar until the fire was driven into night and the gardeners were stuffing roast chickens with wage in their modest homes, and streetlights across the world flickered on until they flickered off. 

This was, indeed, a life. 


End file.
